


When Evil Speaks

by DeadPhilosophy



Category: Rogue Trader, Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Action, Body Horror, Brutal Deaths, Chaos Gods - Freeform, Character Conflicts, Corruption, Daemons, Eldar, Gen, Grimdark, Horror, Imperial Inquisition (WH40K), Imperial politics, Imperium of Man - Freeform, Ordo Hereticus, Ordo Malleus, Ordo Xenos, Original Planets, Psychological Horror, Rampant Heresy, Rogue Traders, Some Humor, To Exterminatus Or Not To Exterminatus, Xenos, cosmic horror, tau - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-08 20:21:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15251319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadPhilosophy/pseuds/DeadPhilosophy
Summary: In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.Within the Imperium, there is no authority more feared than that of the Inquisition. Answering only to the God Emperor himself, these men and women seek to destroy the threats of heresy, Chaos, and aliens.Beyond the reaches of the Imperium lies a planet called Toska, discovered by a Rogue Trader captain and his crew. A world unlike any within the Imperium, it is said to have a human population that knows nothing of the Emperor's light.Three Inquisitors, each representing one of the main Ordos of the Inquisition, are tasked with investigating this new world in order to determine if it could be brought into the Imperium, or if its heresy runs too deep. Though they are armed with the greatest of wargear and skilled in infiltration, they are far from home with little access to backup, forced to blend in among the people of Toska to avoid detection before their tasks are complete. Conflicting personalities threaten to undermine the mission, while the shadows of heresy lurk around every corner. Even if they survive each other, they may not survive what insidious surprises this world has in store for them.





	1. Prologue

“Are you absolutely certain of this?”

 

The captain of the _Lonely Shrike_ held his head in his hands for a moment, his elbows on his knees and his fingers gripping at his mousy brown hair, his breaths coming sharply. The Ordo Hereticus Inquisitor folded her hands in her lap, leaning back in her chair, giving the man a moment to collect himself. He’d lost his seneschal but a day ago, after all. She awaited his answer, listening to the sound of raindrops hitting the roof in a staccato, her gaze travelling to her left to glance out the window upon the darkened landscape. Clouds blanketed the sky, thick as wool. To her right, a servo-skull hovered a few feet above the ground, recording the conversation. The man looked up at her, nearly blinded by the light of the candle sitting behind her as his eyes had yet to adjust to it. He was afraid of the woman seated across from him, and the bolt pistol visible on her hip. That fear was visible in his glassy green eyes. The shadow cast by the Inquisitor’s tall hat brought the unpleasant image of a ghostly spectre to mind, and he shuddered as though in sync with the flickering of the candle. The worn floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight, straightening up to properly face her.

“I am not certain of anything, Inquisitor,” he said, his voice shaky, “it was just a job. A favor to a planetary governor, investigating the planet. He was under the impression the place was populated by a few sparse xenos groups if anything at all, and he thought perhaps they could be purged and the planet colonized. He was wrong… we were all wrong. It cost Aya her life.”

His gaze dropped to the floor. The Inquisitor processed this information, as scattered and unreliable as it was.  
“And did you find xenos groups upon the planet?” she asked, tilting her head in interest, “A new race perhaps, responsible for the death of your seneschal?”

The captain gripped his knees, knuckles whitening as he tensed.

“Human.”

There was silence for a moment, but for the falling rain.

“The Imperium has no records of that world,” said the Inquisitor.

The captain looked up at her. His gaze hardened.

“There were _humans_ on that planet, Inquisitor,” he said, “living in ways I have never seen men live. Side by side with xenos, surrounding themselves with disgusting technological constructs. I… I don’t think it ends there.”

“What you are suggesting, Rogue Trader, is vile and heretical enough,” said the Inquisitor, her voice raising slightly as she rested her hand dangerously close to her holstered weapon, “but I will hear it. What else?”

The captain drew a breath, shaking his head and looking at the floor again.

“Ever since we set foot on that throne-damned rock, I’ve felt _dirty,_ like there’s a layer of filth on me I can’t get off. There was darkness there, and we felt it. Whatever did… _that_ to Aya, it wasn’t any xenos creature. By the time we found her in the undercity, her…”

His lip quivered, and he breathed in sharply through his nose.

“Her legs were…”

The Inquisitor cut him off.

“Captain Rabban,” she said, hand on her bolt pistol, “ _tell me what it was._ ”

The man shuddered, sickened to recall any of it. He took a breath to steady himself.

“Beneath the surface I fear the Warp is alive and well within that evil place. They know nothing of the Emperor’s light.”

The Inquisitor smiled pleasantly, almost disturbingly so as she folded her hands in her lap once more.

“Then perhaps it is time they be shown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If all goes well, I should have chapter 1 up sometime soon. In the meantime, I hope this has been enjoyable. Thanks for reading!


	2. I - Answer To The Master

IMPERIAL DEATH WORLD ATTERO II, 999.M41

 

A dark spire rose above the icy landscape, just visible through blowing snow whipped across the frozen wasteland by howling winds. The Inquisitor’s landing craft was soon obscured by the thick blizzard, and he held the high collar of his greatcoat up over his face as he began to make his way through the snow and toward the fortress the spire belonged to. The Inquisitorial outpost was secluded, and often avoided by all but the most zealous of the Ordo Hereticus. A cyclopean monument to the might of the Ordo, the tall and pointed obsidian structure had been dubbed ‘The Trocar’ for the way it pierced the clouds, akin to how a medical instrument pierced flesh. Moving through the heavy snow towards it, the Inquisitor could already feel ice beginning to form in his boots, and his toes began to feel as though they were not there. Approaching the immense front door large enough to accommodate an Astartes in Terminator armor with considerable room to spare, he reached forward with a cold, stiff hand and grasped the eagle-headed door knocker, knocking thrice. Soon the door opened, and he was greeted by a servitor. Veiny and pale as death, its lower half had been replaced with heavy mechanical legs and hips seemingly designed to move through snow, and a set of three polished mechadendrites arched forward from where they were mounted in its back, grasping idly at the air. A light blinked on a panel set into its emaciated, bony torso, casting a faint red glow into the flurry of snowflakes blowing between it and the Inquisitor. With a jerky motion, it slightly inclined its upper body in what might have passed for a bow, tubes and wires jutting from the back of its bald cranium jostling about with the movement.

“Greetings, Inquisitor,” droned the lobotomized cyborg, its voice hollow and inhuman, “Master Feyd is expecting you.”

The Inquisitor gave a wordless nod to the thing, and it stepped aside, allowing him to enter. He let go of the collar of his coat, letting it fall back into place, and shook the snow from his long, dark hair. The servitor watched him unblinkingly before turning toward a darkened hallway to its right.

“This way, please.”

 

_ Heresy grows from idleness. _

The Inquisitor was never idle. Some would say his work consumed every aspect of him, molding him into a shining, puritan example of what a member of the Ordo Hereticus should be. Adept at navigating the bureaucratic labyrinth of the Imperium, it was said that Tyko Sheol could smell heresy a system away, and the mere mention of his name made planetary governors shudder, worried that perhaps he may have somehow overheard some off-color comment made to a friend behind closed doors, or noticed a health violation by one of their underlings and believed them to be complicit in spreading the taint of Nurgle. Some critiqued him for being overzealous, even inhuman at times, which was not always an inaccurate assessment. 

Among his critics was Master Duncan Feyd, a veteran Lord Inquisitor granted the title of Master in order to oversee the Agathos system and the sub-sector it resided in. Unlike most others, however, his criticism was well intentioned, as he was often concerned that Sheol’s obsession with his work had begun to take too much of a toll on him. Feyd could not afford to lose a valuable asset.

 

Sheol rounded a corner as he followed the servitor, passing several more servitors with similar augmentations as he did. He hadn’t seen a single human since he had arrived, something he had begun to find odd. The dark stone hallway led to a spiral staircase lit by dim, yellowed industrial bulbs mounted here and there on the walls. Each was protected by a small metal cage, which cast hash marks on the surroundings. Servos whirred as the servitor began to ascend the stairs, and the Inquisitor fell in line behind it, his icy boots thudding against each stone step and casting echoes off the walls. The chilled air carried a faint smell of mildew and burnt parchment, the latter becoming slightly stronger as he and the servitor neared the top of the stairs. They approached a long hallway, lit by more of the same dirty, aged bulbs, and passed several wooden doors, some of which were open. Toward the end of the hallway, the servitor stopped at a closed door that bore a tarnished plaque, held on lopsidedly by a single nail and engraved with the Master’s name.

“Here we are, Inquisitor,” it rasped, inclining its upper body stiffly in a bow as before, “good day.”

It then turned back the way they had come, leaving Sheol by the door. Its mechanized feet thudded against the worn wooden floor panels as it walked away. Sheol turned to the door, raising a hand to rap his knuckles on its aged surface. Seconds later, his sonorous knock was answered by the clicking sounds of the lock mechanism turning, and the creak of the door opening. A tall and disheveled looking blonde stood in the doorway, holding a crumpled piece of parchment in his fist. His left cheek resembled a piece of wax gnawed by rats, mangled and mostly composed of scar tissue. The corresponding eye had been replaced by a softly glowing green bionic.

“Sheol, if you aren’t a sight for a sore eye,” he said, backing away from the doorway, “come in.”

“Master Feyd,” said Sheol, bowing his head slightly as he stepped inside, “you wished to see me?”

He glanced around the Master’s office. It was lit by a weakly flickering chandelier that hung above an aged desk, upon which sat a cogitator with a rather tarnished casing.

“Yes,” said Feyd as he walked over behind the desk, giving a dusty vent mounted into the wall a sharp kick, creating a metallic ring that was horribly loud in the small room, “this damned place is colder than Valhalla on a bad day. There is no heat, and this outpost is so infrequently used that at this point nothing works properly anymore. When I say nothing, I do mean  _ nothing. _ Heating system is down, lights don’t want to stay on, sometimes the doors won’t even close properly.”

He glanced at the cogitator on the desk, frowning at what he was seeing, and gave it a good hard smack with his fist. The machine gave a mournful noise, and the frustrated Master turned away from it.

“Ever since I arrived, all I have seen are servitors,” said Sheol, folding his arms behind his back, “why are there no live humans here besides yourself, Master?”

Feyd grumbled under his breath, kicking aside a few pieces of crumpled parchment lying on the floor.

“Servitors don’t complain that they’re freezing to death every five minutes,” he said.

Sheol raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, and don’t mind  _ that, _ ” said Feyd, pointing to the corner of the office behind him. The floor and walls were black and charred there, and smudged with grey ash - the remnants of a fire. “Entirely intentional. A man can get fairly desperate after the third day of being unable to feel his extremities.”

Sheol coughed into his still snow-covered forearm, lacking the words to respond. He had heard from some among the Ordo Hereticus that perhaps Feyd was starting to lose his mind in the isolation of The Trocar, and now such ideas didn’t seem far fetched. The Master had shoved the malfunctioning cogitator aside and sat down at his desk, resting his elbows on its surface and folding his hands with a glum look, muttering further complaints under his breath and looking down at the desk. Sheol eyed him expectantly, brushing snow off of the gold-ornamented collar of his greatcoat.

“Master Feyd.”

Feyd looked up from the desk at him.

“Ah, yes, my apologies,” he said, “that was most unprofessional of me. I ought to have gotten to the point right away.”

_ “Emperor damn it all, by the time he actually does get to the point the Salamanders will have found all of Vulkan’s relics,”  _ thought Sheol, waiting for Feyd to continue. The Master cleared his throat and sat up in his chair.

“Two Terran days ago, Inquisitor Fortunata was approached by a Rogue Trader by the name of Milo Rabban, who had just returned from investigating a region of space in the Segmentum Obscurus at the behest of a planetary governor. Initially, the only threats he and his crew faced were a few scattered Orks, but his story gets quite interesting once the vessel arrived at an uncharted world the governor was interested in.”

“If by ‘interesting’ you mean heretical,” began Sheol.

“Very much so,” said Feyd, his tone grim, “if his tale is to be believed, then out there exists a non-Imperial human population living side-by-side with xenos and utilizing heretical technology.”

Sheol’s brow furrowed in revulsion.

“Is this man to be believed?” he asked.

“I am unsure on the validity of his statements,” said Feyd, “he had lost his seneschal on the expedition, and perhaps the trauma of her death was affecting his mind. However, he did allude to a perceived greater threat, and from his unreliable descriptions I deduced perhaps what he spoke of was a form of Warp anomaly.”

“I see,” said Sheol, running a thumb over his clean-shaven chin in thought, “have any other Ordos been made aware of this? Have the claims made by this man been considered valid enough to warrant our attention?”

“Ah, and  _ that  _ is why I have summoned you here today,” said Feyd with a half-hearted smile that made his maimed cheek contort in an odd manner, “yesterday, representatives of the three Ordos Majoris convened to speak on this matter. To put it plainly, they are not putting much stock in the man’s claims, and are not willing to risk too many resources on what could just be the delusions of a distraught spacefarer.”

“Then where does that leave us?” asked Sheol, blinking. Feyd studied him silently for a moment. Even now, despite how long he had known the Inquisitor, and what he knew of his homeworld, his eyes still unsettled him. A jarring shade of gold, common to natives of the nearby world of Agathos Daimon. Not nearly as odd, thankfully, as the violet eyes of the Cadians, but it still made eye contact somewhat uncomfortable, even for a man with a bionic eye, an oddity of his own.

Feyd considerably disliked having to look Sheol in the eye and tell him what had been decided.

“They have come to the consensus that it would be a waste to send in anything more than a small force, a single Inquisitor per Ordo and nothing else. You were selected to represent us.”

Sheol’s features shifted into an expression of  disappointment.

“I see,” he said, restraining himself from saying anything further.

“You will board the Universe-class mass conveyor  _ Horns of Eden  _ currently over Attero III in seven Terran hours,” said Feyd, “from there, the vessel will make a stop over Armageddon, where the Ordo Xenos Inquisitor and a regiment of the Steel Legion will board. The guardsmen’s destination is on the way to yours, and they will depart before the three of you.”

Feyd paused, running a hand agitatedly over his messy blonde hair.

“I know this isn’t the type of operation you’re used to,” he continued, “and quite frankly none of us are used to it. I tried to at least get you a few Arco-flagellants to take with you, but they wouldn’t budge on that, so here we are. You are welcome to take any wargear you please from this outpost, Emperor knows this is quite the risk we are all taking, and the last thing I want is to see my best asset brutally offed like that Rogue Trader’s seneschal.”

“I appreciate it,” said Sheol with a stiff nod. He remained in utter disbelief that the Inquisition would even bother to send such a tiny force to an entirely unknown world, let alone  _ him. _ Feyd looked at him, emerald eye-lens flickering subtly.

“If, and I have absolute faith that you will, you come back in one piece, there’s a promotion in it for you,” he said, “Lord Inquisitor Sheol has a nice ring to it, does it not?”

Sheol gave a halfhearted smirk, expression softening as he glanced down at the scuffed toes of his still frozen boots. He sighed, a cloud of vapor forming in the frigid air as he did.

“I suppose it does,” he said, “in that case I’ll try my best not to meet a tragic end.”

Feyd smiled.

“Oh, and do me a favor, will you?” he said, “Try not to kill the other two, alright?”

Sheol snorted in amusement.

“You have my word.”

The Master gave a nod, opening a desk drawer and withdrawing a dataslate from it, passing it across the desk. Sheol stepped forward to pick it up, finding it small enough to fit nicely in his hand.

“This contains all the intel you will be needing,” said Feyd, “read through it well. The armory is on the first floor, the servitor that brought you can show you where it is.”

Sheol placed the dataslate inside a pouch on his belt.

“Many thanks,” he said, “I suppose I ought to be on my way.”

Feyd rose, stepping out from behind his desk and approaching Sheol, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Farewell. May the Emperor be with you.”

 

-

 

As Sheol followed the servitor once again, he couldn’t ignore the chill beginning to creep down his spine at the thought of the mission ahead, instead choosing to write it off as being caused by the chill in the air managing to pierce his heavy greatcoat. He didn’t have time to focus on trepidations now, though they were persistent, nagging at him as he descended the stairs after the servitor, heading for the armory. He hoped Feyd’s parting wish would be enough to settle his mind for the journey ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a little longer than I was expecting, but here it is. I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
